


When You're Right, You're Right

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for: "Sam's big brother knows everything there is to know about anything. Also, he's always right. Also, all his ideas are flawless and need implementing. Immediately. Christ. Dean should get Sam drunk more often."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You're Right, You're Right

Dean drinks so much and so often that he’s mostly become immune to the usual effects of alcohol. It’s made Sam’s own relationship with booze sort of bitter and resentful. He doesn’t drink much, mostly because he hates how it soothes Dean in ways he’s never been able to manage, how it’s become a crutch Dean will lean on far more heavily than he ever will Sam. 

But those are all maudlin thoughts and Dean told Sam not to get melancholy. It’s been years, _years_ , since Dean and Sam have been able to get blotto together and his older brother is determined to enjoy it. For Sam’s part, he’s determined that Dean enjoy _something_ , anything to get him smiling and loose. 

Dean’s grin is all crooked and sharp-toothed, crinkling his eyes and making them shine. He’s regaling Sam with past conquests and Sam is cross-legged on his bed across from Dean’s, face aching from the stretch of his own smile. It takes him back to times before he left when everything Dean said was fascinating and true. Dean was so much older, Sam’s hero, with so much experience. Sam’s as much drunk on nostalgia as he is from the whiskey. 

“…so, this witness, shit what was his name? Shane? Shawn? Something with a “sh”. Anyway, this guy, clearly thinks I’m crazy, you know how they get sometimes.”

What’s Dean telling him again? Oh, yes, about a hunt he worked in Atlanta before picking Sam up at Stanford. Usually Sam is as reluctant to talk about those years as Dean, both of them keeping that time close to the chest jealously. But right now, Sam’s head is swimming and his tongue is heavy in his mouth, rolling all liquor-flavored against the insides of his cheeks to massage away the soreness from all of his too-wide smiling.

“…told me everything I needed to know without even realizing it. And when I had all the info I needed from him, sweet little fucker let me screw him in his grandma’s sitting room. Seriously, one of the doilie-thingies on the arm o’ the couch was stuck to his stomach with all the sweat and come.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs full-bellied and rough, but Sam has tightened up with surprise, his shoulders going all tense and his spine all straight and stiff. Sam has always known on some level that Dean gets his kicks wherever he can find ‘em, has even picked up on hints of his brother’s flexible sexuality when he comes home reeking of sex and aftershave, when he throws those wicked leers of his at other guys. But Dean has never actually talked about it with Sam.

There have been shameless stories about girls in short skirts with hungry mouths. All of Sam’s early sexual education came right out of Dean’s mouth, he was only too happy to explain just the right place to slide your tongue and get a girl quaking, demonstrated just how to crook your fingers and massage to have her thighs tensing with need. Dean was always, _always_ right and every time Sam took his advice, the benefits were astounding. 

So, here’s where things get weird and hazy, Sam’s muddled mind trying to trip around an idea, a question. If Dean was right about all of those other things, doesn’t it stand to reason he’d be right about this?

“Wassit like, then?” Sam finally interjects. “To fuck another dude, huh? S’it good?”

Dean’s laughter trails off into gasping, shallow huffs. When Sam looks back, he sees him sprawled back on the pillows, one leg crooked up on the bed, the other dangling over the edge. His mouth melts into a smirk, but the joy hasn’t dissipated entirely, just turned a little sly and curious. “Y’ve never done it? No experimentin’ back at college?”

There _was_ this one time, but thoughts of Brady are a total buzz-kill, so Sam shoves them back. It never got far anyway, not as far as where Sam is asking. “Uh-uh,” Sam answers and lets his shoulders slump, feels his head all heavy on the neck and decides to take another drink just because. “Is it as good as it is with a woman?”

Dean’s eyes slide away from Sam’s face, focus a little wistfully where the wall meets the ceiling, Sam thinks, or maybe just the middle-distance, some place Sam can never go. And, yes, again with the maudlin thoughts. 

“Depends on the guy, I guess. Usually I like girls better, like how they’re all soft and so wet, easier to nail than a guy. Takes a little work to fuck men, but that can be good sometimes. Like how you can kiss harder, get rougher….Sometimes, sometimes you can be…meaner?”

“So, it’s not kinda like fucking a girl in the ass then? No closin’ your eyes and just…pretendin’?

Dean barks out a laugh, a sudden shot of sound that’s somewhere between nice and harsh. “Dude, are you fuckin’ stupid? No way you can pretend, Sammy. A guy feels different, smells different, reacts different.”

Head heavy on his neck, lolling around a little dazedly, Sam lets it fall into his shoulder while he thinks about what Dean said. It’s not like Sam has never wondered before, and hell, there was that one time with Brady, but that just felt like any other mouth Sam had before, so he’s not really sure. The logic seems sound, but he can feel his face twisting into that skeptical look he always used to shoot Dean’s way. Because, yeah, maybe Dean was right a lot of the time, but hell if Sam could let him know he agreed.

“You don’t think so?” Dean responds to the look, eyes narrowing. Sam shrugs negligently, like he’s humoring Dean when really he should just concede the point. 

For a few seconds, Dean stares back at Sam and even through the alcohol haze, Sam can tell Dean’s hatching a plot. Even with that knowledge, Sam’s surprised when Dean dives across the space between their beds, tackles Sam onto the mattress and gets him pinned. It’s not unheard of for them to wrestle like children when they’re drunk and, at first, that’s what Sam thinks this is. Until Dean ducks in, smashes his face into the curve of his neck and bites him. 

Dean has the advantage of being more coordinated when he’s drunk. Plus, he might be smaller than Sam, but Dean isn’t _small_. He’s heavy and crushing Sam beneath him. He’s strong and wily, gets a thigh wedged between Sam’s before Sam can even blink. 

“Close your eyes, Sammy,” Dean grates out, voice low and rough, right next to his ear. “Close your eyes and pretend.” And he rubs his chin over the line of Sam’s jaw, stubble catching and burning a little. “Think you could, think you could just close your eyes and ignore the way I feel?”

Sam whimpers, a sad and pathetic sound but he doesn’t have control of all his faculties right now. Can’t ignore, like Dean said, not with the way Dean’s is crushing him into the bed, not with the way his breath is hot and gin-soaked across Sam’s skin. 

“And what if we were naked, huh?” Dean continues, smearing the words into cords of Sam’s throat. “Just pretend you can’t feel how hard I am, how coarse I am.”

Dean shifts tighter against Sam, and his eyes _are_ closed, his breathing heavy and labored. The muscles of Dean’s thigh are just as hard as he said he’d feel, nudged up close to Sam’s groin where he’s getting hard, was maybe already a little hard just from all the talk of fucking before. 

“And if we got even _closer_ , all the way closer, if you got your cock up in my tight, little hole, you think you wouldn’t feel my balls pressed up against yours? Smell my sweat and my come and hear me groaning all deep and low from how good you were givin’ it to me?”

“Jesus,” Sam gasps, eyes screwed shut while he tries to spread his thighs a little wider. His dick is filling out in his jeans, trapped against the muscle of Dean’s thigh rocking into him. And he _can_ , can smell Dean, booze sweating out of his pores so close to Sam’s face, his cheap cologne that is woodsy and sharp. A little gun-oil and a little blood, all of those smells that have always made Sam think ‘brother, home, Dean’. But now he’s thinking, ‘harder, rougher, more’.

“Oh, yeah, and guys talk dirtier, Sam. Love to growl out nasty shit while they’re gettin’ it,” Dean pants out, nipping at Sam’s earlobe, teeth scraping and stinging. Something hard is digging into the cut of Sam’s hip and he realizes with a dizzy shock, it’s Dean’s cock riding up against him.

Dean releases his grip on Sam’s wrists, and that’s just proof of how fucked up Sam is because he never even noticed they were being held. One heavy hand pushes into Sam’s chest, right in the dip between his pecs, spread out so the index and pinky fingers almost brush his nipples through his shirt. Another gets wrapped up in Sam’s sweaty hair and tugs his head to the side. “Sammy, Sammy,” Dean breathes, a little chastising and a lot turned on. “When you’re fuckin’ a guy, you know it.”

And then Dean shifts up, knees open Sam’s legs and slots himself between them. When he comes back in, they’re pressed cock to cock. Behind their lids, Sam’s eyes roll back in his head, his hips punch up and thrust into Dean, so hard he’s leaking behind his fly. 

“Feel it, huh?” Dean says, mouth smashed into Sam’s cheek, right on the edge of his mouth and going no further. “Feel my dick all hard for you? If we were fuckin’ you’d have to jack it for me. ‘S the polite thing to do. Ya know, unless you were on bottom. Then you’d _really_ feel it.”

They’re really grinding together now, dry-humping like Sam hasn’t done since high school and it’s good, but not enough. It’s making him writhe and twist, has him grabbing at Dean’s hips, but he’s not sure whether to drag him closer or push him off. 

“Fucking fuck,” Dean curses and shoves up on his knees. Cool air blasts across Sam’s face and chest, his sweat damp t-shirt clinging to and perking up his nipples. But it’s a barely-there sensation, so far on the edges of his consciousness when he can see Dean tearing open the fly of his jeans and pulling his cock out.

Before Sam can get with the program, Dean’s fingers get Sam’s jeans open too, work into the slit of his shorts. The first touch of Dean’s fingers on his hard-on have Sam throwing his head back, arching so hard he feels his muscles strain. They’re cock to cock again, Dean propped up with his forearm across Sam’s chest, holding him down. Dean’s other hand between them, grip spread wide around their combined girth.

Dean is dripping precome, way wetter than Sam, but it slicks the way nicely. “Just pretend, Sammy,” Dean gasps out and grinds hard, hand working, hips thrusting. “Just pretend it’s some sweet little girl getting you off, huh.”

“Huh-uh,” Sam denies, shakes his head, hair catching and tangling against the bedspread. And he gets in the game late, but gets in it anyway. Sam grabs at Dean, gets one huge hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the other grabbing a handful of Dean’s ass. It’s a nice ass, firm and Sam can feel the muscles in it shifting with each grinding thrust. 

Sam is coiling tight, pumping up faster, abs tightening. It’s coming now, rushing up from his tight balls, worked out of him by Dean’s hand and cock, Dean’s filthy mouth and dirty mind. Dean, his brother who smiled so pretty at him today and can’t ever back down from a challenge. 

“Dean!” Sam shouts, spine bowing, hips jerking, dick pulsing.

It’s not the best orgasm Sam’s ever had, he’s too drunk and a hand is never as good as a hole, but it’s still pretty nice. His come spurts out between them, slicks Dean’s hand just a little bit more and that’s probably what finishes Dean in the end. 

Dean gnashes his teeth and growls when he blows, hips slamming into Sam hard enough to rattle his bones, the whole sloppy mess dripping over the front of Sam shorts and making them thick and nasty. 

“Okay,” Sam breathes out on a half-manic laugh. “I guess I believe you now.”

Dean groans and tips to the side, falls beside Sam in a shaking pile. “When are you gonna learn that I’m always right, Sammy?”

Now would be the time for Sam to sass back, but instead he closes his eyes to the swaying room and passes out.


End file.
